


In the Meantime

by orphan_account



Series: Spacehog [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Because there is no het, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drug Use, Druglock, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Humor, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Marijuana, Mary is dead, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, only slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:04:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is stuck at home recovering from his injury and in a moment of extreme boredom/depression decides to smoke some hash oil. But he hadn't planned on John coming home from work early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [the same song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39VXuviqD9w). Under 99.9% of circumstances i can't see BC's Sherlock smoking pot but under these circumstances he just might. Or maybe not. It's fanfiction.
> 
> *In ACD's storyline, Mary dies and Watson moves back in with Holmes, which is how it should be because het is gross. 
> 
> **i don't really think het is gross. i just enjoy gayness/close friendship a lot more, especially with these two.

_Our world was much larger then._ i settle into the sofa raise the vaporizer to my mouth hold the button down until vapour spills over and i breathe and wait for it to hit like smoke drowsing honeybees into a stupor _would i give my soul to become like them some days a single cog in a grand flawless machine so easily rendered docile so easily drawn off my track it must be nice_ western domesticated honeybees (kingdom: anamalia phylum: anthropoda class: insecta order: hymenoptera family: apidae genus: apis species: a. mellifera) require frames with cells that mimic natural cell size _with blunt-force trauma the shape volume and direction of blood spatter patterns can indicate the size and/or weight of the weapon used_ as well as sufficient sources of nectar white clover asters dandelions maple trees citrus trees etc in order to maintain a healthy hive a hive mind or group mind may refer to a number or uses or concepts ranging from positive to neutral and pejorative examples include:  
*the apparent consciousness of species of social insects such as ants termites and bees  
*collective consciousness or collective intelligence  
*swarm intelligence—natural and artificial systems composed of many individuals that coordinate using decentralized control and self-organization (more for the hive mind less for the land mine finders) _suspect ran over two miles without slowing plus the extreme definition in her calves thighs and buttocks suggests athleticism to a near-professional degree_ gunpowder: sulphur (S) charcoal (C) and potassium nitrate (KNO3) traces of sulphur on fingertips or on the cuffs i exhale and thin cloud of white escapes my lungs stretching its tendrils out towards the ceiling and for one moment one long unbroken refracted moment i see it the tunnel through a thousand atmospheres through the petty limits that human beings have placed on time and space and axis i can see what the buddhists call nirvana—enlightenment—as described by gautama buddha born in the sixth century b.c. in what is now modern nepal i exhale and the dark lifts

the chatter quiets

and for one moment my brain slows for _one long moment_ i can simply be still.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home, Sherlock gets busted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea if a once-in-a-blue-moon stoner Sherlock is ooc but yeah it's fanfiction.

When John Watson returned to his flat that friday evening after having spent the entire week handling difficult illnesses (advanced giardiasis, fungal pneumonia, ignored strep throat) and difficult patients (hostile, agitated, oblivious) on top of handling his own personal issues, the last thing the doctor wanted was to come home to his flatmate sitting on their sofa getting high. 

Unfortunately for John, Sherlock’s most recent injuries (sprained wrist and a contact head injury resulting in a cracked orbital bone and a grade two concussion) had torn open the most-recently healed lesions in John’s subconscious, and he suffered. Not as much as Sherlock did, what with the pain and restricted activity and frustrating rifts in his usually razor-sharp intellect, but John did suffer too. He was waking up in the night again. 

If he slept at all. 

Sherlock wasn't sleeping well either. Although he had rested for several days (at John's insistence) Sherlock was beginning to chafe against his imposed inactivity, and that combined with the concussion's effects themselves was making the detective pretty miserable.

Which of course added to John's misery.

So it didn’t really help John's rather fragile mental state when he dropped his bag hung up his coat and walked into the sitting room to find Sherlock Holmes consulting detective sprawled across the sofa like a great pale starfish, breathing in the fumes from what looked like an e cigarette with a small glass dome affixed to the end.

And just what in the jesus buggering fuck are you doing, John asked.

i’m smoking. Sherlock placed the device on the coffee table and slumped back. Well, it’s not smoking really. Vaporizing is the appropriate term; the chemical compound THC turns into vapour at around three hundred and sixty five degrees...

Sherlock. John crossed his arms. 

Hmm? 

Why are you getting high in our sitting room? Sherlock managed to roll his eyes even though the left one was half-swollen shut. The sclera in both of them had gone completely pink.

Why do you insist upon asking asinine questions when surely you can deduce why i’m getting high in our sitting room, given the events of the past week. The detective’s response was meant to be hostile but it came out sounding like he really care at all. It sounded odd in John’s ears. Until my concussion heals i'm not allowed to leave the flat, or experiment, or even _think_ too much, Sherlock went on. i couldn't use my laptop for more than ten bloody minutes before my head started to ache again. i was so _bored_ John. It became unbearable. My mind was beginning to tear itself to pieces; i needed a break. John’s frown deepened.

i thought you were supposed to tell me straight away when you felt the need to use, or at least text me before i get home so i’ve had a proper warning

It’s not cocaine, Sherlock interrupted scrubbing his white hands through his ebony hair. It’s not. Morphine John, i really fail to see why you’re so worked up over this.

i just wish you wouldn’t resort to drugs when you’re bored, or upset or depressed, John explained. For an ex-addict that’s a very bad thing, Sherlock.

Actually i’m resorting to it to relieve symptoms of depression, pain, anxiety, loss of appetite, the list does on and on...the detective drawled. And cannabis is hardly a drug, John. It’s a plant.

What you’re smoking right now is not a plant, John countered. But i’m done arguing for tonight; i’ve had a shit week. If you’re using it to help you feel better than i suppose it won’t hurt. 

Damned right it won’t, his flatmate said quietly, reaching for the vaporizer again. i only use hash oil a few times a year at most. Would you care to try it. John stared at him. 

What.

You know how i loathe repeating myself...

No i heard you. It’s just that i’m a doctor if you care to remember, one positive drug test and i’m fucking finished professionally. You should know better. John turned away and went into the kitchen afraid that his friend would see the brief spark of longing in his eyes. 

There are a thousand ways around those tests, Sherlock called after him. Trust me, i know.

i believe you. John turned on the sink to fill the kettle and took two mugs down from the shelf. Behind him he heard the other man stand, begin to walk towards him. Perhaps Sherlock had heard it in his voice. 

If you need clean urine i can get you that. Sherlock’s voice was closer now and John turned round to look at him. 

What. 

i can get you some by eight o'clock tonight. 

What, John repeated, raising his eyebrows.

i have connections all over the city. Sherlock gestured vaguely at the sitting room window. Whether it’s clean urine or information or top-shelf medical-grade honey oil you’re after, i can get it. i’m

Sherlock Holmes, consulting High Bastard, John finished. He went to the stove turned on a burner and set the kettle on it. Why are you so intent upon getting me on your level? You’ve never offered me cocaine before, or

You’ve been considering taking Lorazepam again, Sherlock interrupted. Or Diazepam. You’re still unsure as to what to prescribe yourself. John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Sherlock where are you going with this? 

Those medications may be legal in the eyes of the law but they are still drugs, John. They both have the potential to lead to dependence and addiction and a host of other problems, whereas what i am taking is not dangerous…when used responsibly that is. Yet you are prejudiced against it because of the social stigma attached. 

i’m not bloody prejudiced, John snapped. i just don’t want to smoke it and that’s my choice. 

You would rather take Valium than try? Sherlock countered. 

Yes. No. Maybe! John turned away from his flatmate and threw a teabag into each mug. Look, i’m not angry with you but i’ve had a rotten day, he explained. i just want to have a cuppa and watch a Star Trek rerun or something. So just. Go back into the sitting room and smoke your oil, i don’t care. Leave me alone for a bit, please. John had his back to Sherlock so he didn’t see that for half a second, the man looked truly stricken. 

Then he did what John had asked him to do, and John finished making tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i don't use quotation marks...i dislike the way they break up the words and sometimes it's not supposed to matter if a character is speaking or thinking, but most of the time it's pretty clear. If you don't like my work that's fine with me.
> 
> All feedback is welcome, thanks for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you stuck with this story, thanks a million. i have no idea where the rest of the series will go, but the boys will get together...eventually...
> 
> Either way, Sherlock will probably talk John into smoking again and they'll have high times.

John sat in his chair watching television while Sherlock lay prone on the carpet playing with a ball of blue putty-like material that he’d fashioned from scratch earlier that week. 

i’m sorry that i got so upset with you, John said after a while. You’re an adult and you can make your own choices. Sherlock did not look up from his putty. i just worry, John continued, that with your history you could slip back into old habits. 

Using marijuana does not give me the slightest desire to use cocaine, or morphine, Sherlock informed him. It’s the other way round usually. He rolled onto his back and his wild curls fanned out on the carpet making John’s heart stutter. 

Well if Lestrade ever hears about it he’ll throw a fit, John remarked.

i don’t care about that, Sherlock sighed. 

Then what the hell do you care about? John asked. i mean besides getting into mischief and poking at corpses—

You. Sherlock returned his gaze to the ceiling. John shook himself, not trusting what he’d just heard. 

What did you say.

You heard what i said. Sherlock paused. When i was. Away. i didn’t expect to leave a part of myself behind. And i _never_ expected you to react the way that you did. Sherlock set the putty on the table, resigned. My recent accident has aggravated your post-traumatic stress disorder, he said quietly. You’re not sleeping well and you haven’t for nearly a week. The tremor in your hand is back. i thought. His cheeks pinked up and he looked away. 

What did you think, John pressed.

A great deal of people who use marijuana do so because it helps them relax. Sherlock shrugged. Myself included. Maybe we could have a nice evening together if it worked for you too. i haven't seen you this tense since...Sherlock let his voice trail off instead of finishing his sentence ( _since the first few months after your wife died_ ) and John was grateful but the implication alone was painful for him. He took a deep breath and tried to smile.

Are you peer pressuring me, Sherlock Holmes, he teased. Sherlock gasped in mock surprise.

Me? Never. 

What the hell. John plucked the device from his friend’s spider fingers. Can you really get me clean piss at a moment’s notice?

i can have it to you in an hour or two, no matter where you are in London.

i’m not even going to ask…John shook his head. OK, how do i do it.

What, get clean urine? Sherlock looked more than a little confused. But you just said—

No, you twat, John said affectionately. i meant: how do i use this thing? He tilted the vaporizer back and forth. God you really are high as a bloody kite aren’t you. His friend nodded.

i only buy the best, John. Now hold the button down until the chamber fills with vapour, Sherlock instructed. Then release the button and inhale through the mouthpiece. That’s all there is to it. John pressed his index finger against the small white button held it until a spool of lookalike smoke poured into the glass chamber. 

That’s enough, Sherlock said. Breathe in and hold it for a second or two. John did so and exhaled and it didn’t feel like smoke at all didn’t burn his lungs and he coughed only once and handed the little machine back to his friend. 

It’s a bit more intense than smoking marijuana, Sherlock told him. Keep that in mind. John laughed.

i doubt i’ll keep anything in mind, but OK. He leant back and waited. 

He grinned at his friend and waited.

Then suddenly time slowed and warped and lengthened until he was wading through molasses trailing his brain on a string behind him everything was bright everything glowed. 

We should build a fire, he said suddenly. Do we have any newspaper. Sherlock chuckled and stretched arching his back against the carpet.

There’s some on the floor right next to you. i’m not going to call you an idiot though.

Better not. John poked Sherlock in the ribs making him squirm. You did this to me you git, and i’d fancy that your intellect isn’t up to code right now either. Sherlock’s laugh deepened and John gently tickled him again. Sherlock retaliated by shoving him until he fell over. John got to his knees in a daze snickering. 

Now what was i going to get? He stood and went into the kitchen his mind a complete blank. 

Newspaper, the detective reminded him, pointing to the pages on the floor. It’s right here. 

Christ. John rubbed his eyes, ran his tongue along his front teeth. i can’t get my brain on straight. And all my saliva’s gone.

You made tea. Sherlock held the mug out to him. Come here. John returned to the living room accepted the mug and drained it while picking up the stack of news sheets. Sherlock took another puff from his vaporizer while John knelt in front of the fireplace and began to pick through the kindling they had. 

In what seemed like an hour but was probably closer to ten minutes John had created a suitable stack of paper and twigs and larger lengths of wood. He took a match struck it and began to light the edges of the news watched the print of the previous day slowly burn up making small green flames appear in the centers of yellow and orange. 

John broke from his spell and turned to see his flatmate draped over the entirety of the sofa, staring at him. 

Yes? 

Nothing, Sherlock murmured. Just watching. For some reason John felt himself blushing but he went over to his friend anyway and nudged at him.

Budge up, John said. i’m allowed to sit here too. Sherlock sighed but he did make room, and John sank back against the cushions reveling in the new heat from the grate. 

The two of them lapsed into companionable silence again with Sherlock squishing the putty between his fingers and John lost in thought  
for some reason analyzing the likelihood of Sherlock pulling a Picasso and giving John his own severed ear as a token of his affection how that conversation would go:  
_So...why your ear?_  
_Because i love you._  
_OK. Thanks, i guess. i should probably clean your head up, then. You’ll need stitches, and an antibiotic too._  
_i’m allergic to doxycycline._  
_i know._  
_What are you smiling about._

Hm? John snapped his head up. Did you ask what i’m smiling about just now.

Yes. So what is it. Sherlock’s irises had gone the colour of a shallow sea. All the steel had left them and the streaks of gold in his irises glowed hot in the firelight (and what colour were his eyes really when it seemed to shift so often what colour were his fine lines when he paused for breath when he breathed) John didn’t see his friend’s eyes like that very often; it usually only happened when he was happy or genuinely amused. 

Neither happened often.

It’s just. John felt his grin widen of its own accord until it stretched his face until he could feel the muscles in his cheeks straining. It’s you, he said finally. i hardly ever laughed before i met you. 

Me either, Sherlock admitted. John moved to set another log on the fire and came back to sit close to his friend, until they were shoulder to shoulder. They sat in silence for a few moments both of them smiling like fools smiling like nothing else mattered and would never matter besides the fire and the sitting room and the two of them.

Sherlock. John’s voice sounded suddenly uncertain even to his own ears. Can i

Yes, his friend interrupted, as if he had plucked John’s thought from his mind. So John scooted over and put his arms around his friend’s bony shoulders taking care not to bump the injured side of Sherlock's face. After a few moments Sherlock returned the embrace wound his thin vine limbs around John’s body holding him close like ivy clings to a fence. John sighed as waves of oxytocin broke over and over and over and over and over pushing the pain away wrapping him up tight and the longer they held onto one another the more his pain (physical, mental, emotional) faded until he could not tell what had affected him more—the hash oil or Sherlock Holmes. John didn’t like to admit it but the drug seemed to give him a freer reign over himself it gave him a release and for that he was truly grateful. He could certainly understand why people did it. 

Can we stay like this for a bit, he asked Sherlock. 

Sure.

Nearly ten minutes of quiet passed while they both sat hypnotized by the flames trickling up through the dry branches. Sherlock’s head had migrated down to John’s shoulder and John could smell his hair could feel it pressed silky against his chin. 

Can we stay like this for longer. Sherlock’s voice barely echoed at all in the thick quiet of the room. 

How much longer, John asked. His friend did not respond other than to tighten his grip on John’s arms (Sherlock’s silence often spoke louder than the man himself ever could) and John could not stop the glow creeping slowly from his chest into his limbs  
his throat  
his eyes  
as if Sherlock had opened a jar of fireflies in his chest cavity and let them loose into his body and  
they both glowed. 

The two men melted into the sofa while the television droned on and rest of the world fell away from them. 

i think i’ll go to bed soon, Sherlock yawned some time later when the fire had died down. John looked down at him in surprise.

You actually want to sleep? It’s only half past ten. 

i’m tired, Sherlock said simply. And high and recovering from a concussion. i’d like to go to bed. John nodded and let go of him. Sherlock ran his hands up and down his thighs, seemed reluctant to leave.

Would you. Consider. Sherlock’s bluegreengreygold eyes flicked back and forth twice between John and the direction of his room. 

Do you want me to stay with you, John asked. Sherlock nodded minutely.

i’d rather not be alone tonight, he explained. If you wouldn’t mind. The look on his face prickled John’s heart. 

No, he said after a moment, turning off the television. No of course i don’t mind. i’ll just change and then we can go to bed, yeah? Bring a bottle of water too, i’ve still got cottonmouth. Sherlock’s lip quirked up and he disappeared into his room. 

While John was in the bathroom Sherlock barged in wearing his pajamas and picked up his toothbrush as well. The two of them stood red-eyed in front of the mirror together scrubbing silently and trying to keep from grinning at their reflections like a pair of idiots. John wondered if his friend was thinking the same thing that they looked so right, standing side by side. They fit. 

They got into the bed together without speaking, John on the left side and Sherlock on the right. As he sank into the mattress John realized that for the little sleeping Sherlock did, he had one hell of a bed to do it in; it was a memory foam. So were all of the pillows. 

It felt wonderful. All of it. 

Sherlock switched off the light and they lay on their backs staring at the ceiling for a while before John spoke.

You have nightmares too, he said. It wasn’t a question. Sherlock's right hand automatically affixed to a spot below his left armpit the place where John had a few times before glimpsed a large scar marring the alabaster skin. It was about the size of a golf ball and completely circular. Sherlock hadn't had that scar before he left. He hadn’t had any scars before he left. 

Did you dream last night? John asked after a minute.

Yes.

Wanna talk about it? 

You are curious about the circular scars on my body, Sherlock responded by means of an answer. Do you really want to know.

i can take it, John assured him. For christ's sake Sherlock, it’s me. 

That circular scar is from a utility knife, Sherlock murmured, his voice emotionless. They pushed the blade in until it hit my rib before they started cutting. Then one of them peeled the skin back and poured something acidic into the wound that burned terribly. Something that slowly ate at my flesh. They performed the same procedure about an inch above each of my knees, and once on each of my calves. Sherlock stopped speaking for a moment and John’s chest clenched. One man spoke of perhaps cutting the skin above my heart in a similar fashion, the detective went on. But he didn’t. After i escaped the wounds became infected and the infection spread to my blood. i was hospitalized for over three weeks. The doctors were not sure if i would survive. But that’s not what i dream about, most of the time. 

Unlike the ancient Egyptians John Watson the seasoned medic and sentient human being was fully aware that the heart was an organ that circulated blood throughout the body and did not house emotions, nor could it physically break. 

But John Watson the high bastard was half-convinced that his own heart had gone and done just that. 

He felt it crack. 

John reached very slowly for his friend’s hand and rooted his fingers in-between knowing that Sherlock's inebriation had a large part to play in this in the cracks showing through his armour and that as the effects of the drug faded so would Sherlock's ability to communicate even in the slightest measure. Sherlock squeezed his hand and did not let go.

They lay there in silence for a few minutes while John wondered how many nights his friend had suffered needlessly instead of coming to him. 

Probably just as many nights as he had stayed in his room longing for company after waking up drenched in sweat with his heart pounding. 

You're right by the way, John said at last, rolling over to face the other man. About when you hurt yourself on monday. Sherlock hummed in response and squeezed John's hand again. When i saw—John's voice broke. When i saw you lying in the street...i do understand the risks of your work, but what you did—running flat-out for over two miles with no fuel in your system—was fucking stupid, Sherlock. It could have easily been prevented. You understand that, right? John took a few deep breaths to keep the anger at bay.

Yes, Sherlock said. But

No buts, John insisted. Thank you, he added, for listening to me.

i am trying, John. The detective released John's hand, moved to face him as well. i'm trying to hear to you more. John smiled at him. After a few more minutes of silence he said:

You told me that you didn’t want to be alone tonight.

That is correct. Sherlock’s eyes were glittering in the light that slatted in from the gap in the curtains. John found himself suddenly fighting the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to each of Sherlock’s eyelids to take extra care with the bruised one.

Listen, you don't. John swallowed hard to keep his voice level. You don’t have to be alone any night. Not if you don’t want to be. 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him, but John took a deep breath and forged ahead. If you ever want me to stay in your room, that's fine. Or if i've already gone to sleep, you can come up and sleep in my bed. If you nudge at me a bit i’ll probably put my arm around you, i tend to be a bit of a sleep cuddler. 

Will you do that now, Sherlock asked, sounding shy. John startled. 

What, put my arm around you.

If you would be amenable to it. 

It won't make you uncomfortable.

There are very few things you could do to make me uncomfortable John, Sherlock pointed out. He shifted onto his other side facing away. An open invitation.

Alright then. John inched a bit closer and slowly slid his arm over Sherlock’s waist, frowning at the prominence of his friend’s ribs. Then he realized how warm his flatmate was and felt the oxtyocin return slowly but surely bringing back the Glow. Is this OK, he whispered. Sherlock’s head nodded against the pillow in front of him.

It helps. The detective’s voice suddenly sounded very small. But if this bothers you, you should stop.

Why would it bother me? John asked. He felt the other man shrug.

Most people don’t share a bed with anyone other than a partner, or their child. 

You _are_ my partner, John told the back of Sherlock’s head. 

Not in the conventional sense.

We don’t do anything conventionally, John pointed out. And i’m fine with that. Being normal is fucking boring. Sherlock laughed softly. It’s true, John went on. i’ve tried it. 

More like you tried to try. Sherlock shifted back so that John's feet were pressed against his calves. 

Go to sleep. John gave him a little squeeze. You’re still recovering, and you need to rest. 

Why do you fuss over me like that, Sherlock asked. His voice had gone all soft around the edges. Why are you so kind to me. 

Because you’re my friend and companion, John replied, a bit impatiently. Now go to sleep. Sherlock huffed and settled.

But don’t you think—he started but John cut him off.

i think—John tapped his forefinger against his flatmate’s temple—that we should continue this conversation in the morning, if you like. When we’re both sober.

You won’t forget?

How could i forget? John asked. i don’t forget a single moment i spend with you. i don’t delete any of it. i couldn’t.

Likewise, Sherlock said, so quietly that John nearly missed it. As his breaths began to even out John listened to them, began to drift off as well,  
into the temperate shallow sea that was the plush of Sherlock’s bed  
the colour of Sherlock’s eyes  
the warmth of Sherlock’s body beside him  
his last thoughts fading and settling into the hazy realization that somehow after forty-three years of stumbling from one impermanence to another he had finally found something that against all logic felt right John closed his eyes and focussed on that feeling of glowing of feeling complete uninhibited happiness and not on how normal human beings acted around one another in their sterile pointless little lives focussed instead on how entirely fucking fortunate he was to have found another human being who accepted him wholly and completely who asked so much and yet nothing at all of him who kept him alive and warm and needed, who fastened to him, made him whole, that 

he had found a consort  
an illuminator  
a soul one. Most people would never have what he had, would barely even touch it with the tips of their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The opening line in chapter one is also the opening line in the movie Fern Gully. 
> 
> Also, the line _More for the hive mind less for the land mine finders_ comes from the song [Crows 2 by Aesop Rock.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFaDE4DPta4) Mmmm references...
> 
> **Edit 12/17/14:** Cut out some of the dialogue. With John and Sherlock it's more about what's not said, anyway.
> 
> All feedback is much appreciated, peace <3


End file.
